On our walk last night, Sam bolted, startling me from thoughts as dark as the moonless sky. I stared behind us: a young man had hopped over the wall encircling the town pitch, the wall we skirted, the wall that connected his body to ours. The shadowy figure waved and tipsily turned toward the direction of the main street, in search of his next drink or bed. Sam remained rattled, dashing up the wet street, straining at his lead, occasionally glancing back, at shadow, black pools, and whispering trees.

Of course we were safe, but how do you tell a dog that, as the memory of terror shaped his immediate future?

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